


Burning Up

by TheThirdTemptationOfParis



Series: The Who Do You Love Series [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dancing, Fluff, John Loves Sherlock, M/M, Sherlock Loves John, inspired by a song
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-31
Updated: 2016-10-31
Packaged: 2018-08-28 05:20:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8433337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheThirdTemptationOfParis/pseuds/TheThirdTemptationOfParis
Summary: Sherlock asks John to dance with him. Of sorts.





	

Sherlock had been home for a year, and he and John woke up with smiles on their faces, fingers interlaced in the bed sheets, breaths warm and full of gladness. They had finally made it to where they had both wanted for so long. Six years after having met each other, five years of being together, and they were both alive and whole. But the gloriousness of the moment was broken by the mundanity of normal life, “John, we’re out of milk.”

John groaned and rolled out of bed. Sherlock immediately rolled over onto John’s side of the bed, burying his face in his pillow. John smiled softly at him, running a hand through his hair, “Anything else we’re out of, love?” he asked. Sherlock shifted his head, eyes still half lidded with sleep, to answer.

“Chocolate biscuits and your favorite kind of tea. You used the last bag yesterday, remember?” John smiled a bit wider and leaned down to kiss him softly, savoring it. God, he’d almost missed this, almost lost this, and he would’ve torn the world to pieces to get it back. “Okay, John, you can’t spend all morning if you actually plan on getting things done.” Sherlock chided.

John bit Sherlock’s lip lightly, “Alright you git. If you’re that determined to get rid of me. I’ll be back in half an hour.” He begrudgingly stood up from the bed, pulled on some clothes, and left the flat.

***

If John was being realistic, he got back to the flat in forty-five minutes. Maybe fifty. Damn chip and pin machines. When he unlocked the door to the flat, he heard music coming from upstairs. And not violin music, which he was accustomed to, but it sounded a bit like pop music. Hell if he knew.

After bounding up the seventeen steps to Baker Street, curious, he found Sherlock shirt in a pair of pajama bottoms, much the way he left him that morning, dancing around the sitting room. “John!” Sherlock exclaimed when he walked in, charging for him and practically leaped into his arms. John dropped the shopping to accommodate him, laughing.

“What’s gotten into you, love?” he asked, hoisting the six-foot detective to sit a bit better on his hips. Sherlock smiled his mischievous grin, leaning down to kiss him.

“You.”

Sherlock released John’s hips and sank down to the floor, still holding him close. It was only then that John realized Sherlock was singing.

_Don’t say you don’t miss me that much. Don’t say I don’t still make you blush. Cause my ears are burning, my ears are burning up._

He leaned closer to John’s ear, still singing.

 _Sometimes you can’t yell loud enough. Sometimes a whisper’s just too much. Now my ears are burning, my ears are burning up._ “Dance with me, John.” So they did.

_Too hot to handle, gotta like it rough._

Sherlock grasped John’s hips and pulled them flush against him. John threw his head back and laughed, full and hearty, a sound he knew Sherlock loved.

_Too much of a scandal when the going gets tough. Is it bad enough, is it bad enough to call it off?_

John took Sherlock’s slim hips in his own hands, spun him once, then pinned him to the door, capturing his mouth, cutting off his singing. It was his turn.

_Oh, who you are, what you do, what you need, what’s the use? Hold me now, I can’t help but want you too._

Sherlock let his head fall back against the door, exposing his neck to John, which he greedily took, earning him a breathy, “John.”

_Sometimes you can’t yell loud enough._

He inched closer to Sherlock’s ear and dropped his voice.

_Sometimes a whisper’s just too much. Now my ears are burning, my ears are burning up._

He felt Sherlock’s surrender before he saw it. He completely collapsed in John’s arms and they were back in the bed before the song ended. Who cares that the milk nearly spoiled? It was a near miss worthy of a night spent wrapped up in each other, yelling and whispering in equal measures.

_My ears are burning, my ears are burning up._


End file.
